


Vigilante

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), BAMF Sherlock, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Understanding John, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think that there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge." -The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigilante

 

 

John is bustling about putting the shopping away, soaking up the tranquillity that comes with a flat devoid of consulting detectives.

  
He freezes at the sound of a firearm cocking, and very carefully turns around to face the intruder with his hands raised. So much for a peaceful afternoon.

  
“Where is he?” demands the gunman, which is a damn good question because John hasn’t the foggiest, having not seen Sherlock all day, he was just about to start getting worried actually.

  
The fridge behind John beeps indignantly at being left wide open.

  
The man (who John assumes is some sort of hired muscle), advances towards John, stepping further into the kitchen. The light glints off of the shiny new silencer attached to the gun, which was going to blow John to bits, splattering blood and brain matter all over the flat, while thoughtfully sparing the neighbours any disturbance. Great, all those people who say they’d rather die at home should rethink their damn priorities.

  
John’s really not all that curious as to who the guy is, just yet another person in a long line of people Sherlock Holmes has pissed off, and John mentally adds his own name to that list. All John wanted from this afternoon was a good book and strong cup of earl grey. But fate isn’t really on his side, and now he’s well and truly screwed. These things tend to come with the territory when your flatmate is one of the most hated men in England.

  
Closing the distance between himself and John had been a big mistake for the other man; he clearly hadn’t done his homework about the layout of the flat. It always surprised people that they had two entrances.

  
Sherlock steps gracefully out from the landing into the kitchen from the side without a word, making both of them jump as he presses the cold barrel of his Beretta against the man’s temple in greeting. Sherlock’s hand is perfectly still, his face schooled like a seasoned professional.

  
He'd just stopped off to interrogate Mrs Hudson about yeast flour or something for whatever experiment he was devising, on his way up. He heard John arrive home with the shopping, and had taken that opportunity to escape Mrs Hudson's prattling, but was incensed to return home to find someone threatening John's life, because of him; for the umpteenth time. It was getting old, and his patience was wearing a bit thin.

  
“Give me an excuse and I’ll take it. Any excuse at all,” Sherlock says, like they’re discussing the weather, “You obviously know who I am, so you know I have absolutely no problem with killing you, in fact, between you and me, I’m rather looking forward to it.”

  
As far as John knows Sherlock’s reputation for being a high-functioning sociopath doesn’t extend to being a blood thirsty killer, but John’s assailant clearly believes otherwise because he already looks like a man standing in the gallows.

  
“You’re bluffing; you wouldn’t kill me in your own flat.”

  
John notes that he doesn’t question whether or not Sherlock will actually pull the trigger, instead gambling that Sherlock will be disinclined to make a mess of the kitchen. There’s fear in his voice, and possibly an element of respect, no doubt in this man’s mind that Sherlock will have the stomach to execute him in cold blood.

  
“Continue to point that gun at Dr Watson and we’ll find out,” It’s a verbal shrug, and John gets the impression that Sherlock is toying with him, like a cat with a mouse.

  
The safety engages with a click, and the intruder’s weapon clatters to the floor.

  
Sherlock looks vaguely pleased. Throughout the whole fiasco he’s not looked one bit concerned, a bit cross, dissatisfied certainly, but it had been crystal clear which one of them had been in control of the situation.

  
“John, do you need the loo?” Sherlock suggests conversationally, as if he isn’t holding a gun point blank against someone’s skull. All the colour drains from the face of said prisoner.

  
Is Sherlock trying to not-so-subtly get John to leave the room to ensure he won’t be an accessory or a witness to premeditated murder? The would-be assassin seems to subscribe to that theory because he looks resigned and he’s looking to John in a last ditch attempt, as if John’s going to sympathise with him after he’s just threatened his life.

  
But John doesn’t really think intimidation tactics warrant the death sentence for christsake, this was getting out of hand and he’s nervous about what Sherlock might do. Before today John wouldn’t have said Sherlock was capable of murder, except under extreme circumstances, but he doesn’t like this at all, Sherlock couldn’t be seriously about to kill the guy, could he?

  
The question is; what will John do if he does?

  
Sherlock rolls his eyes.

  
“I only ask because I intend to cuff him to the U bend so if you need to go, now would be a good time.” It’s unsettling how relaxed Sherlock is.

  
The gunman can’t believe his luck; he’d already started preparing for his imminent demise.

  
John remembers the CIA man who roughed up Mrs Hudson a few years back, maybe the guy had good reason to be afraid, Sherlock simply did not tolerate those who threatened the people he cared about, and had a habit of treating them as he saw fit, regardless of the law.

  
Sherlock had shown no remorse back then but now he’d handled the situation almost cheerfully, like he was insulted at the quality of criminal sent to assassinate him. John muses that the hit man was probably lucky that it was Sherlock he'd come here to kill. Because if the target had been John, the intruder would be dead, and there probably wouldn't be much left of him. Oddly enough, John knew from experience that Sherlock would take it a lot more personally if John's life had been put at risk rather than his own.

  
Sherlock sits lounging in his chair nonchalantly, not batting an eyelid at the reproachful look he receives from Mycroft as he quietly has his people escort the intruder out. The worst part is Mycroft doesn’t even look surprised, just long suffering in his disapproval, and leaves with very little discussion.

  
John is still baffled on a daily basis at the madness that has become his life.

  
Sherlock then proceeds to continue on with his day like that had been a completely normal occurrence. He’s actually bored. Someone broke into their home with full intent to execute him, there was a standoff, he threatened to kill a man, then an arrest and now he's _bored_.

  
“Er, Sherlock, what the hell was that?” John gestures at the kitchen.

  
“Hmm? Oh, a wet-job I suspect,” Sherlock answers flippantly, "I thought that was fairly obvious."

  
A hit? He knows that’s what it looked like, but he’d thought it unlikely, that sort of thing just doesn't happen. Well, it did to them, but not _regularly_. John knows there are plenty of people who hate Sherlock, you can tell that from the sheer volume of hate mail he receives, but a bounty on his life is a bit extreme (the late consulting criminal non-withstanding).

  
“Since when do you carry a firearm?” This was the question John _really_ wants to know.

  
Sherlock looks up sharply, and his mouth twists involuntarily like he’s just sucked on a lemon, then thinks better of it turns his head away without answering and refuses to meet John’s eye. A sure sign that John’s hit a nerve.

  
Sherlock's avoidance speaks volumes, the answer is since Sherlock's time away, obviously. He never wants to talk about it, which makes John want to know even more somehow.

  
John persists.

  
“Cause it was always my SIG that you used to torment Mrs Hudson’s wall, and I’ve never seen you have a gun before now, but you handled that nine mil like you could do it in your sleep.”

  
“You do realise, I hope,” Sherlock replies curtly, looking dead ahead, “That there was significant danger involved in dismantling the web. Even without the spider, Moriarty’s people weren’t exactly amateurs.”

  
“You killed people.”

  
“Yes.”

  
John processes this information, it hadn’t occurred to him before; the immediacy of the danger Sherlock must have faced. If he’d really thought about it, then of course he’d have realised that it wasn’t exactly a holiday, that he would have been in dire straits, that desperate measures would have been called for.

  
But John hadn’t wanted to look deeper, even if he hadn’t realised it. He must have had some inkling, but a part of him just didn’t want to see Sherlock that way. So he had sincerely believed that Sherlock had been traipsing around the world, and had left him out of some sort of grand adventure.

  
He considers it, and really, are Sherlock’s circumstances that much different to his own? They’d both travelled away from home to protect the ones they loved, and in both cases this may have been misguided. They’d both seen combat, they’d both taken the lives of their opponents and they had both believed that they were doing the right thing.

  
John hadn’t wanted this for Sherlock, and the cool expression on his friend’s face made him feel a bit sick, but so had his own cultivated indifference to the bloodshed around him that he’d slowly accumulated in Afghanistan, surrounded as he was by it every day. They were no different, and to condemn Sherlock’s actions would be the height of hypocrisy. Sherlock may have done some horrible things, but John’s opinion of him had not changed, he could see the good in Sherlock, even when no one else could.

  
“Okay.”

  
John accepts Sherlock’s confession with conviction. He is endorsing Sherlock’s conduct, and letting him know that he acknowledges that there was wrongdoing but that it can be justified, that to him, it’s acceptable and he can get past it. John understands.

  
“It is?” Sherlock is curious and more than a bit taken aback by John’s mild reply.

  
“Well it’s sure as hell not _good_ , but I’m hardly in a position to pass judgement, am I?”

  
“I suppose that’s true,” Sherlock’s lip twitches reluctantly with the hint of a smile and John realises that he had been dreading this, dreading John’s reaction, his moral reproach, and that John’s acceptance means a great deal to him.

  
Bonding over committing mass homicide is probably ill-advised, but they’ve never been conventional, in any sense of the word.

  
It’s fine; it’s all fine.

 

 


End file.
